


Verbis Defectis Musica Incipit

by loveoftheimpossible



Series: Et custodivit quasi pupillam oculi sui; Or, The Mobster & His Songbird [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergent Backstories, Canon-Typical Violence, Carter is a FBI agent in this like she deserves, I'd say this is a mobster AU but that's not really different from canon at all, I'll state in the notes if the chapter has child abuse / domestic violence mentions in them, Lounge Singer AU, M/M, Mob vs NYPD, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Past Parental Murder, Reese is using the Detective John Riley identity in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveoftheimpossible/pseuds/loveoftheimpossible
Summary: When rising mob boss Elias buys out a closing club, he decides to keep a few things from the past management, including reformed criminal turned lounge singer Anthony Marconi.





	1. You Saw Me Standing Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my partner in just about everything, [SaintDianeofCooper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintDianeofCooper), for betaing each chapter as I pump them out. Love you lots, and thanks for continuing to enable my love of Marconi nearly 24/7. xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fledgling mob boss Carl Elias takes an interest in _Persephone_ , along with the club's charming singer.

‘Here she is, boys: _Persephone_ ,’ the owner, a shabby man in his late sixties, proclaimed in a heavy Brooklyn accent, standing proudly outside the thick mahogany door. ‘Now, be careful of the knob; it's a finicky bitch.’ He turned the knob and tried to open the door, but it stayed firmly in place.

‘I don't know boss, this place doesn't seem very….noteworthy,’ the accountant stated softly to the man beside him, frowning as they watched the older man finally force the door open with his shoulder.

‘Bruce, how long have you known me for?’

‘Too long,’ Bruce replied easily, earning a small smile from the other man.

‘You're right. Now, have I ever been wrong about a gut feeling before?’

‘No, but–’ Bruce began before his friend raised a hand to stop him.

‘No buts today, please. Just take it in with an open mind. It's all about how this place _feels_.’

‘Mister Elias, please follow me,’ the owner said, waving them both inside. Elias smiled and followed quickly, Bruce reluctantly in tow.

The three men ducked underneath a gaudy faux velvet curtain draped over the main archway and into the large room filled with unseemly stained tables. Bruce sneered before Elias gave him a warning look, sitting down on a rather wobbly stool at the bar. The room itself looked dated; it was aiming for a 50s vibe, and thus they thought having sixty year old furniture made sense, but all it was doing was making the place look like it survived a nuclear fallout. Along the back wall was a generously sized stage, fit for a house band, though there only seemed to be one microphone and a rather beat up old piano – Elias had seen better looking setups in failing public schools.

While the owner droned on and on about all the features the club had, Bruce scribbled down notes onto a legal pad, already knowing from past experience Elias didn't care about the details; if he wanted the place, he was going to completely gut it, rebuild it from the bottom up, so in his mind details were all old history. Though Elias didn't care, Bruce sure did, asking every question imaginable about the aging venue, from how it was built to number of guests on a usual weekend. After all, he was the one putting up whatever small fortune any of these places ended up costing, at least until Elias got his setup running steady enough to pay him back.

‘Uh, Mister Cipriano? Mind if I do a runthrough for tonight?’

Through the noise, the slightly amplified voice caught Elias’ attention, shaking him out of his own head. The voice had come from a man who had suddenly appeared on the stage, dressed in worn cotton button up, thick black tie, and slacks just a touch too big for him. He tucked a strand of dark hair that had avoided product behind his ear before he cradled his hands gently around the microphone.

‘Of course, Anthony, don't worry about us,’ the owner shouted back across the room before returning his attention to the pair on the other side of the bar.

‘Who is that?’ Elias asked, the first question in the fifteen or so places they had checked out. Bruce raised an eyebrow at his boss, intrigued.

‘He’s been keeping this place alive,’ Mr. Cipriano stated matter-of-factly. ‘I knew his mother when we were kids, but I started seeing him around the neighborhood maybe twenty years ago. He's got a set of pipes on him that could rival ol’ Deano himself.’

Elias turned to watch the man push his shoulders back, standing taller than he had just a moment earlier. His eyes drifted shut for a moment in concentration before exhaling, eyes slowly opening once more.

‘ _Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own_ ….’ the singer – Anthony – began a cappella, swaying slightly to an unheard band; Elias realized almost instantly why _Persephone_ hadn't closed – the entire place felt different once filled with Anthony’s voice.

‘Let's talk numbers, Mister Cipriano,’ Elias said plainly, still watching Anthony on stage. ‘This is the place I've been waiting for.’

‘Carl, I don't know–’ Bruce started, but Elias raised his hand once more.

‘Bruce, _this_ is the place. I can feel it. Give us an offer and we’ll be happy to negotiate.’

Bruce tried looking sternly at the other man, but Elias was once again lost in thought as he watched the man onstage finish the song before beginning another one. While the owner started writing down numbers, all of which were rather reasonable and well below Bruce’s planned budget, Elias couldn't take his eyes off of Anthony. To him, it was almost as if he was watching some intimate moment, as if the singer was dancing with a lover, parting his lips for a kiss. The man knew how to draw focus, that's for sure.

‘It'll be a shame to see him go,’ Mr. Cipriano sighed. ‘This kid only seems to find places that are closing, and _Persephone_ is no exception. I haven't had the heart to tell him yet.’

Elias turned his head slightly. ‘I’ll have him stay, then.’ When met with Bruce's skeptical look, he continued, ‘We’ll need a new singer anyway. Might as well keep a little piece of history.’

‘You’ll have to ask him yourself, Mister Elias. He’s under no obligation to stay once I'm gone,’ the owner explained. ‘He was staying outta loyalty to an old family friend.’

Once all three of them made plans to meet up in a few days time to sign the paperwork, Elias got up from the bar, stretching slightly before making his way towards the stage. Anthony was now taking a break, sipping a glass of water on the piano’s small bench, and he raised his head as the man approached.

‘Can I help you?’ the singer asked, crossing his legs. Now that Elias was closer, he was able to take in a few more features of the man: he looked as if he was in his forties, though his movements on stage wouldn't have given that away; if anything, he looked about ten years younger during his set. He also noticed Anthony’s face bore a faded red curve just below his right eye, a scar that, from the looks of it, formed decades before.

‘I wanted to introduce myself,’ he began, standing about two feet from the stage. ‘My name’s Carl Elias.’

‘And what can I do for you, Mister Elias?’ Anthony’s mouth seemed to curve pleasantly around the name, causing a small smile to land there. Musicians always had a special way of making people they spoke to were the only one in the room, and Anthony seemed extremely talented on that front.

‘I have good news and bad news. The bad news is your boss is selling the place.’

Anthony’s eyes went soft, expression unable to hide the disappointment he felt. ‘Shit. Mister Cipriano didn't tell me.’

‘Didn't want to break your heart so soon.’

A pause while he mulled the words over. ‘What's the good news then?’

Elias took a step forward. ‘He's selling it to me, and I'd like to keep you on as house singer. It's only fair, but ultimately the decision is up to you.’

Anthony sighed in relief, uncrossing his legs before taking another sip of water. ‘Honestly, I’d love to. There's not really a great demand for forty-five year old lounge singers, ya know. The last time a place like this closed, I was out of work for two months.’

‘I'm going to be paying you triple what Mister Cipriano paid you. And, since we’ll be closed for a few weeks for renovations, I'll be giving you a signing fee that should more than cover any lost wages.’

‘What's the catch?’ the singer asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

‘No catch. Don't sell yourself short. I heard you sing up here, you're well worth the money,’ Elias explained. ‘Just one last thing.’

‘Yeah? What's that?’

‘What's your name?’

He outstretched his hand. ‘Anthony Marconi.’

‘Nice to meet you, Anthony,’ Elias said, shaking the man’s hand firmly.

‘Nice to meet you too, boss.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will focus on Anthony's backstory, which I'm excited to write! I'm hoping to put out a new chapter every few weeks, so stay tuned!


	2. Please, Let's Forget The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anythony's done some things he wasn't proud of in the past, but killing his father wasn't exactly on his list of regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter deals with Anthony's backstory, _expect some mentions of child abuse, domestic violence, alcohol, and murder_ ; if this is something you don't wish to read about, this chapter may be skipped, as a few key points will be brought up again in later chapters with less detail. This chapter mostly exists so you can get a better feel for this universe's Anthony!
> 
> In addition, I just want to thank y'all for being patient about this chapter. As a survivor, it took a bit longer than I had been initially expecting to work on this one, since it brought a lot of stuff up. On top of that, my chronic pain had been acting up, which made it so I couldn't always focus on this fic. Hopefully the next chapter will be up much sooner!

On June 6th of 1966, at 6:06am, Anthony S. Marconi came screaming into this world and only quieted when placed lovingly into his mother’s arms. If asked even now, she’d still say it was the happiest moment of her life.

His father, as it so happened, hadn't come home from the bar the night before, and when he was finally told the news hours later, immediately began his attack on the new child. Being a man of superstition, he insisted that Anthony was born of the devil, and thus that the woman who bore him, Angeline, brought the evil into their lives.

Anthony’s life at the cramped apartment his parents shared was like living in a war zone. Moments of peace were only found when Anthony’s father was out; there was cigarette ash caught in his beers at the local bar most nights, though every now and then he abandoned the watering hole just long enough to pick up a seasonal construction job or two. Angeline tried her hardest to shelter her son from harm, and for the most part, she was successful, despite the cost to herself. Anthony made it through childhood, learning to crawl unnoticed, unsteadily walking past altercations, pretending to ignore black eyes and split lips while being read a bedtime story. He was smart for his age and picked up moods easily; he knew when to hide and when to turn the radio up loud, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons covering up the shouting outside his thin door.

As Anthony got older, he grew more defiant, refusing to move out of range of punches and suffering the consequences. He cared less about his own injuries if it meant a chance of protecting his mother – she had a wrist that wouldn't heal, a severely fractured cheekbone, and not a penny to her name. He had gotten good at lying about injuries that weren't covered by clothes: he had tripped and twisted his ankle on the stairs, let go of the pole on the subway too soon and hit his head, slammed his fingers in the door of a taxi. If his teachers noticed, they didn't care, too busy trying to herd his loud and rowdy classmates than make a lasting connection with a quiet loner.

At age eleven, he started losing his patience. Despite praying daily for his father to get into an accident, to never come home, to leave them both alone, his shape darkened the doorway to their apartment on a nightly basis. Regardless of if he stayed silent or fought back, nothing changed.

Until one day, it did – for the worse.

It was just past one on a school night, and he knew he should've been fast asleep by now. Instead, his ear was pressed against the door, hearing his father’s key jingling as he struggled with the locks. As soon as he stepped inside, there was a commotion, a telltale slam, his mother’s noise of shock. Anthony felt his hand curl into a fist, nails biting into the skin of his palm.

It was like any other night, except it wasn't. Instead of the usual sound of hard objects impacting on already bruised flesh, there was a faint sound of something else, followed by a wracking sob. Silently, Anthony pushed his door open a crack, using one eye to peer out of the safe haven of his bedroom. Immediately, he noticed the moonlight reflecting off an item in his father’s hand – a long kitchen knife with a sharp point. He couldn't quite make out all of what was being said, though he did pick up on a few key words: ‘never been born,’ ‘bleed out,’ ‘dead.’

He didn't quite remember it happening; the brain has a way of protecting itself from damaging memories, and when Anthony came to, he didn't even remember leaving his room. He found himself sitting on the floor in front of his father, blood soaking into his pajamas and dripping from a deep cut on his face. In his hand was the knife from earlier, which he immediately dropped before scooting backwards away from the scene. Angeline was in hysterics, screaming and holding a gash on her chest, bleeding through the fabric of her nightgown.

Before he knew it, he blacked out again, only to wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed.

If there hadn't been so many stab wounds, it would've been immediately called self defense. Instead, he was appointed a public defender and was being told to plead guilty, that if he cooperated they'd only send him to juvenile detention for the minimum before being released into a rehabilitation center. Anthony asked about his mother and his lawyer said she was alive but in bad condition; he signed the paperwork on the stipulation he could see her before he went to jail.

Juvie wasn't as bad as the apartment had been. Anthony was mostly left alone once the other boys heard what he had done, saw the scar that curved down the side of his face. He took solace in books, though mostly in the Bible; ‘Saint Anthony,’ they had called him, ‘the patron saint of lost life.’

When his time was up, he was placed in an experimental new program with a few other young violent offenders. It was a school of sorts, though in addition to regular classes, there were classes that focused on expressing oneself in healthy ways rather than lashing out. While his other schoolmates favored things like writing, running, or painting, Anthony felt most at ease in music class in front of a piano, with a guitar in his hands, gripping sheet music from his favorite hymns and 50s crooners. His teachers noted that aside from his one instance of violence, he was likely never to do so again, watching the boy sing happily and often. He felt normal for possibly the first time in his life, a reality he never quite expected.

After completing the program with flying colors, he was sent home to live with his mother, who was now a beautician and lived in a new apartment. Angeline looked well put together – seven years could do that to a person, even after such a traumatic event. She still smiled at him just how Anthony remembered, and when they embraced, he tried his best to ignore the fact she wore high necked shirts even in the midst of a summer heatwave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter picks back up with the present. Hope y'all are enjoying this!
> 
> As I mentioned earlier, chapters four and seven will have key mentions to Anthony's backstory, so if you decided to skip this chapter you'll still be able to get a feel for his character later on.


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